“Thanks,” I said, backing away from the pane of glass. “I’ll just… wait over here.”
I walked toward the plastic chairs and put a hand on my chest, like that would slow the racing of my heart. I hated that adrenaline was flooding my body, that I was in fight or flight mode because of the asshole who’d gotten me drunk in high school, who’d seen me naked thanks to the pictures the Bastards had taken of me.
My gaze skimmed the flyers, snagging on the headlines (MISSING; BLACKWELL AUXILIARY PANCAKE BREAKFAST; PENNY SOCIAL; MISSING) without really registering them as my mind spun with the fact that right behind me, Brandon Miller stood like a big stupid oaf, acting like we’d been friends in high school. Acting like he hadn’t routinely gotten girls hammered without their knowledge so he could take them upstairs to his room and assault them, then brag about it at school.
Why was the world so full of people who hurt other people and were then allowed to continue on as if nothing had happened? Why did they get to pretend they hadn’t done something vile while we, the victimized, were forced to swallowour pain and shame, slapping a stupid smile on our faces in order to keepthemfrom feeling even a little bit uncomfortable?
I wanted to crawl out of my skin from the fucked-up-ness of it all.
“Lilah?” I turned fast at the sound of my name coming not from Brandon, but from a tall slender woman with dark hair standing in the open door of the glassed-in front office.
I walked toward her. “I’m Lilah.”
She held out her hand. “Detective Rodriguez. Officer Miller said you wanted to talk to me about one of my cases?"
Officer Miller. Ugh. I wondered if Detective Rodriguez knew Brandon was an undercover snake.
“Yeah,” I said. “I saw online that you’re assigned to it.”
“Which case?” she asked.
I glanced at Brandon, trying to disguise the fact that he was listening. Behind him the other two officers tapped at computers and answered the phone when it rang.
“Is there somewhere else we could talk?” I asked. “Somewhere more private?”
“Of course,” she said. “Follow me.”
47
LILAH
I followedDetective Rodriguez down a long hall. Fluorescent lighting cast everything in a sickly, slightly blue light, the sounds of the police department — ringing phones, conversation, a copy machine at work — emanating from the open doors we passed as we made our way to the back of the building.
I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, trying to quell the nervousness roiling in my stomach, the urge to leave and admit this had been a horrible mistake.
We reached the back of the building and Detective Rodriguez stood back from an open door and gestured me into the room.
It was small and simply furnished, but not like the interrogation rooms I’d seen on TV. This room had carpet and a couple of upholstered chairs opposite a worn wood desk with a yellow legal pad and a pen. There were even a couple of tacky landscapes on the wall, the kind I’d dusted at the Mountaintop Inn.
I relaxed a little. This felt more like a job interview than an interrogation.
“Please,” she said, “have a seat.”
I perched on the edge of a chair opposite the desk and rubbed my hands on my black pants, a necessary part of my ruse since the Bastards thought I was working at Burger Haven.
“What can I do for you today?” she asked.
I called up the words I’d rehearsed on the way to the police station. “I’d like to report something.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “A crime?”
“Yes… maybe.” I sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“The officers at the front do intake,” she said. “I thought this was about?— ”
“It’s about the trafficking thing,” I blurted. “The thing that happened at Aventine, Piers Cantwell…”
Interest flashed in her brown eyes. “Okay.”